My Corporate Life
by Carbon12
Summary: If I had known I would meet my future wife that day, perhaps I wouldn't have taken advantage of my company's casual dress code. If I had known I would meet her that day, perhaps I would have paid attention to her name when we were introduced. But I didn't know. Luckily, the nine to five corporate life allows for more than just a first impression.
1. Just Another Tuesday

**Chapter One: Just Another Tuesday**

If I had known I would meet my future wife that day, perhaps I wouldn't have taken advantage of my company's casual dress code. If I had known I would meet her that day, perhaps I would have paid attention to her name when we were introduced. But I didn't know. Luckily, the nine to five corporate life allows for more than just a first impression.

* * *

Tuesdays are a hollow day in a life of living for the weekend. Mondays give a sense of purpose after a weekend of either challenging my liver's willpower or seeing how long I can go without changing out of pajamas. Tuesdays, however, remind me of the daily, monotonous cycle I will be continuing for the next forty years. This Tuesday was no different; even with the introduction of a new employee.

* * *

My iPod is on as loud as my ears allow when I see my manager out of the corner of my eye walking down the row of desks. I scoot closer to my computer, typing frantically into a spreadsheet, appearing busy and avoiding any extra assignments he's passing out.

"And this is Brittany."

I push up the sleeves of my gray hoodie before pulling out one of my ear buds and swiveling to face my manager and an extended hand from the person I'm apparently being introduced to.

"Brittany will be another resource for questions after you finish your training."

I smirk, shaking her hand but looking beyond it to her black business suit. Rookies always think a corporate job needs a corporate suit to go with it. There's no one here to impress. I make more eye contact with Emma Watson and her wand on my computer background than I ever do with a client.

My eyes track up to meet those of the woman I'm already supposed to know the name of to find a smirk of her own. Her eyes graze down my body, and I'm sure she's laughing at the picture of the duck and dolphin high fiving on my sweatshirt. She can laugh all she wants; sometimes you need a duck to get you from three o'clock to five o'clock in this place.

"Nice to meet you, Brittany." She says my name as though she's memorizing it. She might as well not bother. There are twenty people in the department and two weeks of solitary training to forget all of them.

With that, she brushes a stray hair behind her ear and follows my manager to the next row of desks.

Four more days until Saturday.


	2. It's What I Do

**Chapter Two: It's What I Do**

Wednesday morning a head pops up over my desk divider. "That Santana is pretty hot, isn't she?"

I glance at the ear buds sitting next to my keyboard, regretting not putting them in this morning before answering. "I don't think Santana has actually put out any new music since I was in middle school, and even then I wouldn't have referred to it as hot. Also, I'm pretty sure he's a guy." My fingers play with the cord of my ear buds before looking back up at Puck and his obnoxious mohawk. "And by _I'm pretty sure he's a guy_, I mean I know he's a guy."

I watch four heads turn our direction from across the aisle as Puck burst out laughing. "No, I mean isn't the new girl…"

I cut him off with the wave of my hands when I realize what he's saying, and saying loud enough for the whole floor to hear. Understanding, his head disappears below the wall before he and his chair wheel to my desk. "The new girl's name is Santana. Now she is definitely a woman. And when I say definitely a woman, I mean…"

This time I cut him off with a kick to the shin, not wanting to know the end to his sentence. "I didn't notice. I was busy working." My hand darts for my mouse, but his eyes are quicker.

"Ah, I didn't know you were assigned to beating medium on Minesweeper." He doesn't wait for a response before continuing. "I can make the shortcut for this look like an excel file."

I smile at the guy whose redeeming characteristics are few and far between but always worth sticking around for. "And I can run your weeklies while you do that."

He makes a last attempt at the initial conversation as I scoot my chair back, making room for him to pull up to my desk, and make my own way over to his. "Next time you see her, Brit, check her out. I mean, what do we have in common if not an appreciation for beautiful ladies?"

I push my converse off the floor one more time to glide myself behind the divider wall, hidden from view. "Besides a secure Monday through Friday and an increasingly dwindling chance of making it alive out of the weekend? Absolutely nothing."

"You got that right."

Without looking, I raise my fist to meet the one I know is extended from the other side of the wall. It's the little things that get you through the week.

* * *

The next two weeks come and go without occurrence. I'm sitting at my desk Wednesday afternoon when my attention is stolen by a tap to my right. I thank the good timing of the legitimate work on my monitor as I turn to face my manager. "What can I do for you, John?"

His head turns in surprise at my voice. "Oh, Brittany. Nothing. I'm actually here to talk to Puck."

I can hear Puck's gloating laugh from the other side of the wall, but the softer chuckle accompanying it is new. It's not until then that I notice the small Latina behind John. She's traded her suit for a pair of gray dress pants and a collared shirt, but her brown eyes have the same amused look as they did the first time we met. I watch her eyes scale my body again but my plain black v-neck doesn't give much to laugh at.

"Right." I break the brief moment of silence. "Well, if you need anything, let me know." I put my ear buds in but don't turn on my music, listening to the conversation next to me.

"Puck, Santana is going to shadow you until her computer is set up and she has work of her own."

"Sure thing boss."

He's such a suck up.

"Don't be a suck up." John says as he flicks Puck on the back of the head before turning to leave.

I hear Puck scoot his chair over and Santana disappears behind the divider, pulling up a chair of her own. "Welcome to the exciting world of medical insurance. I'm Puck and I will be your guide."

I choose to believe the following silence is filled with Santana rolling her eyes. Losing interest when Puck starts into an explanation of what he's working on, I turn my music on, drowning out his voice for the rest of the day.

* * *

Thursday I arrive to work at seven. As usual, I'm the only one on the floor and will be for at least the next half hour. I log onto my computer and pull up my media player to play out of the speakers until others arrive.

I sing along to the 90's rap, reminding The Man he doesn't own my soul. My fingers type to the beat and my foot kicks my waste basket for extra bass. I transition into beat boxing and take my chair for a final spin, closing the ending beats with a nice crowd pleaser. Only to find an actual audience.

"Santana!" My foot hits my desk and I not so graciously catch myself before falling out of my chair. "Santana, hi. Good morning. It's morning. I mean early morning and you are here. And I am here, but you are usually not here. Or anyone else. Just me. Why are you here? Early I mean. Why are you here so early?"

I can only imagine how much willpower it takes to suppress the laugh vibrating in her chest. I can only sigh in relief when she answers my question instead of commenting on anything that happened in the last forty seconds.

"Training started at 7:30; I assumed that's when everyone got here."

I gain some of my composure, but not my mind when I respond. "It's too warm to be wearing a scarf."

She doesn't miss a beat with my sudden brain-wandering. "I didn't know I would be assigned a desk AND a mother today."

I laugh, easing back into my chair. "You can basically come in whenever you want as long as it's reasonable business hours and you get eight hours in. Most people won't be here until eight."

She silently nods, switching her weight to her left black heal and looking uncertainly around the office.

I stare for a few seconds before realizing why she's uncomfortable. "You can sit with me for the morning if you want. Puck won't be here until at least nine and we do the same thing."

Before she can answer, I grab the chair she used yesterday and pull it up to my desk.

I take in her grateful smile before turning to open a fresh excel sheet. It's then that I notice my open media player and Vanilla Ice playing out of the speakers.

"Don't turn it off on my account." My cursor hovers over the boxed X. "I wouldn't want to stop any potential performances."

I click the box closed and hold my eyes on the screen as though that can hide the blush I can feel burning my face. "I thought we had an unspoken agreement that we would never speak of that instance for fear of my mafia connections doing away with you."

"Hmm." The woman of a thousand smirks mocks contemplation. "In that case, I suppose it can remain between us."

"It can remain an unspoken thing between us." I correct.

The woman of a thousand-and-one smirks has only one word. "Perhaps."

* * *

People trickle in as I explain my work to Santana. It's almost nine when I need a mini break to stretch and rest my eyes.

"How many colors of those do you have?"

I follow Santana's eyes to the Chucks I currently have propped on the desk. "It's only fitting that I have a rainbow's worth of them." I cut my laugh short when I remember I'm not talking to Puck. The red of my cheeks heat up to the color of my shoes for the second time that morning. "Colors. I like colors."

What is surely to become a babbling fit is saved by Puck's entrance. "Hey, you stole my girl, Britt."

Santana stands as he approaches. "I bet that happens a lot."

Puck laughs and I wonder how much of that was actually a joke.

"Thanks for letting me hang around this morning, Brittany."

It's not until her head disappears behind the divider that I find my voice. "No problem."


	3. Innocent Interest

**Chapter 3: Innocent Interest**

My eyelids are drooping against my half-hearted protests when my office instant messenger blinks on my screen.

**Puckerman, Noah**: _She's given in. She's wearing pants._

I casually lean my chair back, glancing directly across the aisle to where Santana is sitting at her newly assigned work space.

**Pierce, Brittany**: _Indeed she is. Maybe it's just a casual Friday thing._

"I didn't think about that." His voice is groggy. Probably the first he's spoken all day.

**Pierce, Brittany**: _We'll have to see on Monday._

**Puckerman, Noah**: _Want to make a little wager on it?_

This time I verbalize my response. "What are the stakes?"

"Who are you talking to?" The voice hits me inches away as I frantically close the IM conversation.

"No one. I mean Puck." I spin my chair to face a pair of legs elongated by tight fitting jeans. My eyes wander up to find the rest of Santana. She raises an eyebrow at my response but lets go of the question in her eyes.

"Could you help me with something?"

"As long as you're not asking for dance moves." I follow the smiling woman to her desk. Unsurprisingly, it's still bare besides a stapler and a notebook. The one personal touch that made it to her desk this soon is her computer background. "That's cute." I say pointing to the picture of her and a young child.

"I'm his favorite aunt." Her smile grows bigger as her cursor circles the boy's face. "It's easy to spoil them when you don't have kids of your own, ya know?"

I nod, subtly glancing at her hand controlling the mouse on her left side; the ringless finger answering my unasked question. I'm reminded of my constant failure at subtlety when she catches my eyes. "It must suck being left handed sometimes." It starts as a cover, but turns into a real curiosity when I see the mouse cord wound awkwardly around her keyboard.

"Yeah, but you learn to adapt to a right-handed world." Her hand releases the mouse and moves to tapping her desk finger by finger. "Besides, you know what they say about lefties."

I don't know, but the mischief in her eyes makes me want to. Instead, I shift back into work mode. "What was your question?"

* * *

When I return to my desk, my IM is blinking.

**Puckerman, Noah**: _Bow Chicka wow wow_

**Pierce, Brittany**: _Want to explain that one to me, Puckerman?_

**Puckerman, Noah**: _She was totally hitting on you._

**Pierce, Brittany**: _I don't think it's possible to flirt around a copay conversation._

**Puckerman, Noah**: _Who are you kidding? That left handed comment…HOT!_

**Pierce, Brittany**: _You've heard that before? What does it mean?_

**Puckerman, Noah**: _I don't know. I thought it was a lesbian thing._

**Pierce, Brittany**: _Go figure. Even if she was flirting, I don't mix work and real life._

I lean back in my chair once more. Admittedly, I have no qualms with the new view stationed only feet away, but what I said to Puck holds true: mixing work and real life leads to one taking over the other, and I need to preserve the latter as much as possible.

**Puckerman, Noah**: _So, if it wasn't a lesbian thing, think I have a chance with her?_

"Not a chance."

His voice mirrors my half-sarcasm. "Hey, come on now."

"Just being real with you, buddy.

With one last glance across the aisle, I lean back to my computer.

**Pierce, Brittany**: _So, about this wager._


	4. A Little Closer

**Chapter Four: A Little Closer**

Mondays always come too soon, and take longer to switch into full gear. At least Puck knows to wait an acceptable amount of time before starting a conversation.

**Puckerman, Noah**: Looks like you owe me lunch.

Reminded of Friday's bet, I glimpse to my right.

**Pierce, Brittany**: No, you bet she would wear jeans, so I win.

**Puckerman, Noah**: Those are jeans.

**Pierce, Brittany**: No, those are khakis.

**Puckerman, Noah**: Khaki colored JEANS.

A few moments of silence pass before Puck speaks. "We are in a tricky spot here, Pierce. We have to ask her."

I channel my mother's stern voice. "We are not doing that, Noah."

I take the following silence as a win, and the ringing of Santana's phone as an added buffer.

"This is Santana."

Or so I thought…

"Santana, hi. This is Puck from across the aisle."

I'm out of my seat, gliding across the aisle, barely registering Santana's confused look towards Puck before it molds into fear as I barrel towards her, knocking the phone from her hand.

Santana's phone is hanging off her desk by the cord, I've landed on the floor next to her chair, and phone or no phone, Puck is still talking. "Brittany and I had a little bet about how long it would take you to drop the business from business casual."

Her eyes stray from Puck to me, clearly not understanding the question before Puck speaks again. "Are you wearing jeans or dress pants?'

The confusion doesn't leave her face as she responds robotically. "Who was on what side of the bet?"

With a suggestive grin, Puck answers. "That would make a difference, wouldn't it." The added wink is met with a disgusted face on Santana's end. Suddenly, I am no longer the embarrassed woman sitting on the floor next to a co-worker she practically tackled. Suddenly, I am the woman sitting on the floor next to a co-worker she practically tackled who is holding in a laugh directed towards Puck being shot down.

Before I can voice my amusement, I am quieted by Puck's sudden turn to his computer. A second later, Santana's chair is spun towards her own screen, and a tanned hand is pulling me by my shirt to my feet. "So, a copay can only have a maximum if the base copay is a percentage?"

I take a moment to gather what is going on when I see John making his way down the row with a less than pleased expression. "Right, percentage." Santana is clearly quicker on the fly, but John doesn't seem to notice.

"Brittany, you've worked with Turners and Rice, right? I barely nod before he speaks again. "I just got off a call and they are pissed about how much time their new plans have been taking. Scrap whatever you've been working on and make them your priority."

I'm apparently not expected to be an active member in this conversation as I watch him retreat back in the direction he came.

I give Santana a grateful smile and return to my desk where an IM is waiting.

**Lopez, Santana**: Dress pants or jeans?

I smile as I type my response.

**Pierce, Brittany**: dress pants

**Lopez, Santana**: I'll let Puck know.

* * *

I spend the next couple days with my headphones on, avoiding distractions as I work on the priority client. My quick breathers are filled with glances to my right, deciding enjoying the view isn't crossing any lines.

It's Friday when John finally relieves me of Turners and Rice. When I receive the email, I look to Puck to take a needed break, but his headphones are on and the cord isn't plugged in. A clear sign he doesn't want to be bothered. I check to my right to see Santana chicken pecking at her keys.

We take a walk down the stairs to the atrium, taking a seat at an open couch before either of us says anything. Santana crosses her legs, picking a piece of lint off of her black pants. "I'm surprised you didn't ask your bestie to come."

I stretch my legs and sink into the couch. "Puck was busy." Her expression dips slightly. "And he's not my bestie. I suppose you could call him my work bestie, but not in the real world."

"That surprises me. You two seem close." Her eyes are in the distance, watching suits come and go through the front door.

I gather my thoughts, finding the nicest words possible. "You know how Puck seems like a womanizing player, but you know he would never actually act on anything, so it's almost endearing?"

Her "sure" is accompanied with a laugh.

I can't help but match her smile as I go on. "Well, outside of work, he is actually a womanizing player. And it's not endearing."

Santana nods in understanding, unfazed by the information. "You've known each other a while though."

"We started at the same time right out of college. So around three years."

She turns towards me, making eye contact for the first time since we sat down. "We would have graduated high school the same year then. Not college; I didn't go right away. But high school."

She has me caught in her brown eyes as I prod her on. "What did you do after high school?"

She shrugs and ends our eye contact. "Moved to New York. Tried to get discovered, score a record contract. Found out an aspiring singer looks a whole lot like a full time waitress. So I went to college and here I am."

"Working for The Man." I finish for her.

"Yes." She meets my eyes once more. "But The Man is much kinder than the streets of New York."

Not knowing how to respond, I simply nod and make a move to head back to our office.

As the elevator dings with our floor, Santana ends our conversation with a question. "So Brittany. If I were to see you outside of work, would I find out you're a womanizing player?"

I've seen the smirk she gives me before. I give her one of my own, and walk to my desk without answering.

* * *

I'm surprised to find Santana at her desk when I arrive Monday morning. She had been getting in at 8:30 since the day she caught me dancing. She doesn't look my direction, so I sit down and hit the power button on my computer. That's when I hear the soft music coming from her direction. It takes me a second, but when my ears confirm what I'm hearing, I spin towards her, my finger in the air accusingly.

She's already looking at me; arms crossed, smirk in place. "We've all got our guilty pleasures."

My finger drops in defeat but I'm not without an ever witty remark. "It wouldn't be a guilty pleasure if it were 'N Sync."

"Come on now. You can't hate on Backstreet Boys without hating on 'N Sync. And anyways." With that she hits a key on her keyboard and the aforementioned band is playing.

I shake my head, smile unwavering, and turn to log onto my computer. I'm going through my emails when I hear Santana whispering lyrics. "Tell me why."

I can't help but chime in. "Ain't nothing but a heartache."

I see her jump out of the corner of my eye, but she remains fixed on her computer and sings on. "Tell me why."

"Ain't nothing but a mistake."

She picks up confidence and we duet through the rest of the song.

Santana keeps her eyes on her computer through the whole song, not breaking stride when it's over. "You know the only thing that would have made that better?"

I follow suit with my eyes glued to my screen. "Tell me."

"A beat boxing break."

The music is cut as others start trickling into the office.


End file.
